Spirt the Stagecoach Horse
by Shelbo
Summary: Spirit is captured and taken away from his precious homeland to pull coaches in Portland. While he is there, he meets kind people and bad people. Not to mention kind horses and not-so-kind ones who try to kill him. All in all, Spirit needs to return home.


**Author's Note**: I don't own anything except a few of the Draft horses and of course 90 of the humans.

Chapter One: Captured!

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It happened so very fast that I'm really not so sure what happened, except it had all happened once before. My name is Spirit and I am the leader of the herd of mustangs that dwell Cimmeron country. Like my father Strider, I would lay my life on the line to help my herd land, and I have once before. Man had come and taken me to their fort, beated me, mistreated me, and starved me. Only Little Creek the Native American looked at me the other way around. He freed me, but then tried to take me for his own. I met my soulmate at his camp, that spunky painted mare Rain.

But enough of that, you must know how the story goes, you're reading a blooming fanfic of it! _Anyway, there I was_: lying down in the grass; ropes binding my leg so I couldn't move. A hairy man clambered out of this...cart pulled by the biggest, most beautiful horses I had ever seen (don't tell Rain this). Only a moment ago, the horse ran with the cart, chasing me down the fields. I thought I would get away.

The hairy man called to his partner, "Hey, Reggie! How much do you think the stagecoach drivers will pay for this'n?"

So that's what I was being held hostage for...not to be an Army Horse, but a **Stagecoach Horse**!

A lanky, all together ugly black man hopped out from the driver's seat of the stagecoach. "Now, Larry, you know that boss won' sell no mustangs, cuz driver only want draft horses to pull their cabs."

Larry crossed his arms over his barrel-shaped chest, "And why is that?"

Reggie pondered for what seemed like forever before saying, "Uh...cuz they are purdier?"

Larry pulled out his belt and popped the other man square on the head, "**NO, you idiot**! They want draft hosses cuz they're bigger and stronger. But this'n in purdy big and purdy strong fer a mustang. So it'll do!"

Reggie fell back from Larry, holding his head. The beltbuckle had actually hit him and blood sopped everywhere. I could help but let a neigh of concern slip from my muzzle. Larry jerked his head over to me, "You stay quiet, mustang."

The hairy man got up and hitched me onto the odd stagecoach. It was like being saddled up and ridden, but not as unpleasant. Don't get me wrong, I hated it, but I feared the shining yellow belt buckle more. Next to me an old mare was pulling and walking ever so slowly. She nickered to me, "Keep up with us or the beltbuckle..."

Larry howled, "Yah! Yah! Yah! Move it, mustang! Getcha backs inta it, hosses." He snapped the belt out at me and I spooked. Just for that, I recieved one of the worst pains in my life: the man actually slapped my rump with the buckle! I reared with uncomfort. The mare barked, "Get down now, foolish stallion or you'll get us all whapped!"

I followed the mare's advice and pulled. My large back sinews ached with every step, everytime I put my left foreleg out I thought we approached our destination, but soon discovered it was all in my head. I learned the names of the four horses around me, the one in front: General Hardy, the egotistical old gelding who served in the Cival War once. The one in front of me: Kasper the loud-mouthed colt who was forever singing. The one next to Kasper: General Hardy's brother, Shotgun Steve. Then there was the mare, the only mare assigned to this coach. Her name was Wildlake, and she was a beautiful bay with blue shimmering eyes. She claimed to be only ten years old, but she looked older. Shotgun Steve said that that was what happened when you pulled stagecoaches all of your life.

It was about twelve hours before we came into Portland. We saw small children running everywhere, men and women bustling to get to where they were going, and- of course- stagecoaches. It was so much like the Indian camp and the Fort, but not.


End file.
